“Not even with friends?”
Mycroft chose not to answer my question.
Our meal arrived. As much as I did not wish to inflate Mycroft’s ego more than necessary, his choice of restaurant, wine, and meal exceeded my expectations. Later we withdrew to an adjoining smoking room for brandy and cigars.
“While I am thoroughly enjoying the evening, I cannot help but note this is a very public setting for a man of your position.”
Mycroft swilled his brandy. “Well observed. Visibility is the point of meeting in this delightful restaurant. Washington, as is London, is crawling with spies these days. We have watchers who are watching the watchers. The owners of this establishment love top government officials. All manner of spies come here for dinner. With their unlimited expense accounts, they buy the most expensive spirits and wines.”
“Much was spoken of trust in our meeting with Colonel Hawker. Is your analyst in the Kremlin trustworthy?”
“She led us to the individual responsible for ensuring Sherlock’s participation in the Jenny Winston affair. I neither trust her nor distrust her. She provided us with a useful piece of information. Where things go from here is entirely up to her.”
“My sense is that you don’t entirely trust the Americans.”
Mycroft chuckled and poured us both more brandy. “Do you imagine the Americans are not spying on us?”
“Your response suggests they are.”
“They are, indeed. There are no lines that cannot be crossed. They are spying on us; we are spying on them. You were correct in your observation during our meeting with Colonel Hawker that this game - this bloody game, I think you said - is risky. Lives are at stake, livelihoods, prosperity, safety, you name it.”
“Then why play?”
“The alternative is war. We have no choice but to spy on our enemies and our allies alike. Alliances may change overnight. Information is the new currency. And friends are not always forthcoming. We share with the Americans only what serves our interests. In turn they provide us only with what they wish us to know.”
“All seems a bit silly, if you ask me.”
“Silly, but necessary, John. It is really a matter of simple economics. One must compete if one is to survive. In times of war our nation and our allies come together to form a formidable alliance. Off the field we compete against each other, not with. Each of us seeks an advantage over the other when it comes to trade, contracts, or international agreements. Intelligence is critical to achieving that advantage. If you and I play a game of cards, I have the advantage if I know what cards you are holding. Intelligence is the instrument that allows me to know your hand. Armed with that information, I know how far you can go.”
“Are we stealing secrets from the Americans?”
“Espionage does not always involve absconding with blueprints in a briefcase. It is far more complex and subtle. Friendships are cultivated over time. Conversations over drinks are steered in certain directions. A home is searched while the occupant is away. Threats may be used to expose an infidelity. A lover might ask a favor.”
“If Sherlock knew then what you are telling me now, I wonder if he might not have thought better of taking on this case?”
“Have you asked yourself why Sherlock acquiesced?”
“Admittedly I was surprised. Initially he seemed to have no interest.”
“The day you spent with your editor revising your manuscript, Sherlock came to see me regarding Miss Ransom’s visit. As you noted in our meeting with Colonel Hawker, Sherlock sensed something was amiss from the beginning. Never mind all that Jenny Winston was born in England palaver. The two men at the bus stop alerted Sherlock to the possibility there was more to Miss Ransom’s request than merely locating Jenny Winston. For Colonel Hawker’s benefit, it was necessary for Sherlock and me to play a little scene. He pretends he knows nothing; I pretend he is not as clever as he seems. This really was a matter for the Americans. The Soviets overplayed their hand.”
“You believe Shubin’s agents had been following Sherlock?”
“They were following Miss Ransom. They were present to confirm she contacted Sherlock.”
“What is your interest in this matter?”
“Twofold. First, we have assets in place in America whose identities we wish to protect. The Jenny Winston affair would come dangerously close to exposing British operations in the U.S. As somebody obviously wanted Sherlock involved, we felt it best to see where this led.”
“What is your second interest?”
“Roswell. We want to know the truth about the Roswell incident. The Americans won’t share, and that upsets us, yet another justification for a British network in the U.S.”
“Have you any idea what really happened out there?”
“We have lots of ideas. Some are simple, others are farfetched.”
We sat for a moment, quietly staring into the fire, swilling our brandies.
“Is that everything?” I asked.
“John, it is never everything. Some things, however, are best left unsaid.”
I raised my glass. “To things best left unsaid.”
After finishing the evening with a cup of coffee, Mycroft offered to give me a lift to my hotel. I had a bit of a foggy head. I declined the offer of a lift, preferring instead to walk. The fresh air would do me good.
“Do you think that is wise, John? I cannot stress to you the need to be careful.”
“I appreciate your concern. My hotel isn’t far. I will be fine.”
“Very well.” Mycroft bid me good night and said he would see me after our return to London.
The night air was brisk and sobering. I established my bearings and set off for a leisurely stroll to the hotel. For no longer than I had been walking, I realized I had either misjudged the distance to the hotel or I had gotten lost. Admittedly I did not know Washington that well. Perhaps I had had more wine than I realized. I should return to the restaurant to call a taxi, I thought. As if my need had been anticipated, a yellow cab appeared, slowly creeping down the street toward me. Had it been following me? No doubt I stood out as a tourist thoroughly lost and in need of assistance. The taxi pulled up to the curb adjacent to the spot where I was standing. The driver gave me a friendly wave and switched off the for-hire sign on the roof. I hopped into the backseat.
“The Marquis Hotel,” I said.
“You got it, Mister.”
The driver set the meter and pulled into the sparse night traffic. After a couple of minutes, the driver glanced into the rearview mirror and said, “If you don’t mind my saying, a gentleman such as yourself shouldn’t be alone on the streets at night.”
“Point well taken,” I replied. “I thought I knew my way.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, you’ll be taken good care of.”
What a hectic three days it had been, I thought as my taxi wound its way through the streets of Washington to my hotel. The disastrous affair with Agent Sands, the meeting with Colonel Hawker, and dinner with Mycroft were almost too much to take in. I felt exhausted. Beginning with my meeting in London with my new editor Miss Terry, I had continually been reminded we now lived in a brave new world. This new world was a world of lies and mistrust. Mycroft and others seemed to navigate effortlessly through it, but I was not so eager to accept it. Perhaps that was why I enjoyed writing. It was the only place I could escape to where the world was that of my own creation.
I was so caught up in such ruminations, that I hadn’t been paying attention to my journey. It seemed to me as if we had left Washington D.C. all together.
“I say,” I said to the driver. “Are you sure this is the way to the Marquis?”
“I believe I missed a turn. I’ll just pull over.”
The taxi pulled to the roadside on a long, dimly lit street. No other car
s were in sight. The driver rolled down his window and then bent over to reach for something. When he sat up and turned toward me, he was holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. With the other hand he was pointing something at me that looked like a pen.
“Don’t worry,” the man said. “It’s just a little something to make you sleep.”
Before I could cover my face, the driver’s head snapped back, and he slumped over onto the passenger seat.
“You all right, Dr. Watson?” A man asked, pushing his head through the driver’s side window.
“Yes, I think so, a bit shaken,” I said.
“Let’s get you back to your hotel,” the unknown man said. He opened the rear door of the taxi and escorted me to another automobile parked behind.
“Nice to see you again, John,” a voice said as I slid into the backseat of a black limousine.
“Good lord, Mycroft, what is going on?”
“Earlier when I said you really must be careful, I was not being polite. Whether here or in London, you are a target of the Soviets. You were lucky this time. Fortunately, my driver had observed the taxi before you exited the restaurant.”
I had no words. All I could say was, “Thank you.”
The Call
Early the next morning the telephone in my hotel room rang. It was the hotel operator. “Dr. Watson, I have a long-distance call for you from New York. Will you take the call?”
I couldn’t imagine why anyone from New York was calling me, but I took the call, in case it was Holmes. Why he would be in New York, I had no idea.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Watson?”
The voice sounded emotionally flat, but familiar. I couldn’t place it.
“It’s Miss Terry.”
“Eden?” I asked, unable to conceal the surprise in my voice. Dr. Watson? Miss Terry? Hadn’t we parted company in London on a first name basis?
“Yes. I am in New York. I wonder if you could meet me here.”
“New York?”
“Yes, I am meeting with our American publisher.”
“Forgive me. How did you know I was in America?”
“Oh!” There was a long pause. “Mrs. Portland. I contacted your housekeeper.”
The tenor of our conversation felt off.
“Go on.”
“I have some issues I need to go over with you. If you could meet me at my hotel.”
“Your timing is fortuitous. I will be leaving Washington for New York within the hour. I am not sure how much time I will have in New York.”
“It is very important, Doctor. Most important.”
“I take you at your word.”
“When you arrive at my suite, don’t bother knocking. The door will be unlocked. I will be waiting for you.”
Miss Terry provided me with the name of her hotel and room number.
After putting down the phone, I realized I had broken into a sweat. There was something odd about Miss Terry’s tone, and yet this unexpected and odd invitation felt vaguely seductive.
“Silly old man,” I said to myself.
* * *
New York City
It turned out my layover in New York allowed ample time to take a taxi into the city and address the issues Miss Terry had raised on the telephone. I entered the hotel lobby and took a lift to the tenth floor. When I arrived at room 1001, my first impulse was to knock, but she had said to come in without knocking.
I swung the door open. “Hello?” There was no answer. “Hello? Miss Terry? It’s me, John Watson.” Still no answer.
The room was a suite. Slowly I walked through the hallway to a sitting room. To my utter shock, there in the middle of the room was Eden Terry, tied to a chair, wearing nothing but her underclothes. Her head was slumped forward. Clearly, she was unconscious. I rushed to her side and knelt before her.
“How nice of you to come Doctor, to rescue your damsel in distress.”
I looked up. A man with a Russian accent had entered from an adjoining room.
“What’s going on here?” I demanded. “What have you done to her?” I pulled off my coat and wrapped it around Miss Terry.
“Ah, yes. The English. Such gentlemen.”
“I said, what have you done to her?”
“Not to worry, just a mild sedative. She will awake thoroughly refreshed and not remember a thing.”
“Where are her clothes? What kind of animal are you?”
“Doctor, a veteran such as yourself, you know we all employ various methods of persuasion.”
“Whatever it is you want this woman knows nothing.”
“Quite right. She is the cheese to entice the mouse.”
“And you will get nothing from me.”
“I doubt that, Doctor. Once you meet The Caretaker, I believe you will give him everything he needs.”
Someone moved behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt a slight prick in the neck. In an instant, I was out.
The Caretaker
The Great Salt Flats
The agents Piper Sands referred to as Moe and Larry sat at a small table in the upper hangar playing cards. With little else to do until The Caretaker arrived, playing cards had become their routine. Their prisoners were well-secured. They had plenty of time to waste and plenty of time to think. Neither agent felt valued. Life as a secret Soviet agent had far less glamour than had been presented at the academy. They were little more than thugs.
The sound of a plane circling overhead announced the arrival of The Caretaker. The agents put away their cards and went outside to meet the plane.
Moe reached inside his jacket and pulled a pistol from its holster. He checked to make sure he had a fully loaded clip.
“Put that away,” Larry said.
“Do you know The Caretaker?” Moe asked.
“By reputation only.”
“Neither do I. Best to be safe.”
Following his partner’s lead, Larry patted the bulge beneath his left armpit.
The twin-engine plane touched down on the white sand runway and taxied slowly toward the hangar. After the props stopped spinning, a tall man carrying a black medical bag exited the plane. The pilot remained onboard.
The Caretaker approached. Both agents felt a moment of trepidation. The Caretaker’s hair was parted in the middle, he had a pencil thin moustache, wore steel rimmed glasses, and he had a scar that ran from the length of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His appearance was every bit as unsettling as his reputation.
“Comrade, it is a pleasure to welcome you,” Moe said. “I am Agent Mikhail Lebedev, and this is my colleague Agent Alexei Egorov.”
The Caretaker halted before the two agents. He studied their faces carefully, as if his eyes were X rays.
“I have little time. Take me to the prisoner.”
For a Russian, Moe thought to himself, The Caretaker had an excellent command of English. In the academy, agents in training had been taught to take nothing for granted.
“Ваш английский отличный, товарищ,” Moe said.
“It is not necessary to test me, Agent Lebedev. I speak seven languages without a hint of my native tongue. Shall we proceed?”
“Of course. This way.”
The two agents led The Caretaker downstairs to the cells below the hangar.
“The girl is here,” Larry said. He unlocked the cell door while Moe stepped back, pistol in hand.
Piper Sands was seated on a settee, reading the only book available to her, War and Peace.
When Piper Sands looked up into the face of the stranger, she did a double take and burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me?”
Moe and Larry glanced at each other nervously. Such impertinence, such disr
espect.
“Quiet!” Moe demanded. “This is The Caretaker!”
“This is your scary Caretaker? He looks like an escapee from a Nazi melodrama.”
Larry stepped forward to silence the prisoner.
The Caretaker raised his hand. “Leave us. Shut the door, but do not lock it.”
“Are you certain, Comrade?”
“Do as I say. I will take care of this impertinent young woman. Get out!”
Both agents stepped out of the room and closed the door behind them.
Piper Sands exhaled a deep breath. “Am I glad to see you.”
Sherlock Holmes removed the steel rimmed glasses. “I can hardly see with these things.”
“I am sorry, I almost blew your cover. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I just wasn’t expecting you. You have a habit of showing up at the most unexpected times.” “I apologize for the cheap theatrics. Tucumcari has little in the way of theatrical supplies. Apparently, that pair of thugs was convinced, and that’s all that matters. Now, we must act quickly. I have no idea how much time we have or how much longer I can maintain this charade.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I have syringes in this bag. Once I open the door, you will need to appear as if I have sedated you. I will invite our friends inside to move you. You will have one syringe hidden at your side, and I will hold the other at my side. You will inject one; I will inject the other.”
“That seems easy enough.”
As an afterthought, Holmes added, “You should probably scream.”
“Naturally, isn’t that what all helpless women do?”
“I mean no disrespect. We are improvising. As a reminder, I have no idea how much time we have.”
“What about the prisoner next door?”
“There is another captive?”
“Brought in early this morning. I heard the banging on the door and walls. It’s impossible to know who it is.”
“Whomever, we shall soon find out.”
As instructed, Piper Sands gave several mighty screams and then reclined quietly on the settee, the syringe hidden at her side.
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 13
